Fil. Galliard, look there—look on that lovely Woman; ‘tis Marcella, the beautiful Marcella.
[Offers to run to her, Gal. holds him.
Gal. Hold! Marcella! where?
Fil. That Lady there; didst ever see her equal?
Gal. Why, faith, as you say, Harry, that Lady is beautiful—and, make us thankful—kind: why, ‘tis Euphemia, Sir, the very Curtezan I wou’d have shew’d you.—
Fil. Forbear, I am not fit for Mirth.
Gal. Nor I in Humour to make you merry; I tell ye—yonder Woman—is a Curtezan.
Fil. Do not profane, nor rob Heaven of a Saint.
Gal. Nor you rob Mankind of such a Blessing, by giving it to Heaven before its time.—I tell thee ‘tis a Whore, a fine desirable expensive Whore.
Fil. By Heaven, it cannot be! I’ll speak to her, and call her my Marcella, and undeceive thy leud Opinion. [Offers to go, he holds him.